Crucifix of the Heart
by Sadame XX
Summary: AU Syaoran is a boy who came from a poor family. Could things possibly become any worse when his father decides to sell him as a slave? Yaoi. EriolxSyaoran. -On hiatus-
1. Prologue: I am solitude

Notes: My first CCS fic.  And it's going to be an Eriol/Syaoran.  Lynch me if you have to. 

Disclaimer: I own no characters from CCS.  Period.

Warnings: NCS-ish situations, eventual yaoi, language, violence, and a lot of angst.  Beware.__

~ ~ ~

**Crucifix of the Heart**

_-- What is love ? --_

**Prologue**

When I was around the age of twelve, my father used to make commentaries about nudity.  He'd often pointed out that men don't need to be ashamed of it; all of us have the same mechanics.  There is no need to hide yourself, he said.  This resulted in him taking up the habit of walking around naked upstairs.  He hadn't delevoped this habit when my mother was alive.  It bothered me a little at first – my father's lack of dignity – but after a while, I got around to it.  

My mother had long since passed away on a fateful day overcome by a terminal disease which had flooded the village the year before, leaving my father and me behind in an old crumbling house in the middle of nowhere in particular.  I'd never given a thought about doing anything to lighten the burden in the family because, I figured, I couldn't think of anything to do.  I still remember the moments before my mother died; she was lying on the bed, her hand twitching ever so slightly, probably from pain, the pale-white sheets beneath her rumpled and creased in a disturbing way.

I was right there, watching her in silence, as she lay breathing unnormally, unaware of my presence.  I could do nothing but watch her endure the pain consuming her.  Finally she opened her eyes and saw me.  I tried not to advert my eyes from her, but failed and merely dropped my head, fixing my gaze on the empty floor. 

"Syaoran . . ."

I looked up more quickly than I'd imagined to, and felt a wave of despair surrounding me when I saw a trace of smile on my mother's delicate features as our eyes came in contact.  Her hand lifted very slowly towards my direction, as if reaching out to me, as if expecting me to take it in my own.  I didn't move.  

"Syaoran . . ." she said again, her voice thin and weary.

Seeing her like this, in this helpless state, hurt me deeply like never before.  I wondered if I should go to her.  But if I did, I knew I wouldn't be able to turn back.  I crossed the room to the bed and knelt down beside her, placed my hand on the crumpled sheets.  Her hand curled itself around mine, cold and quivering.  It took all the will in me not to pull away.  

There was a shadow of loneliness in her eyes, mingled with regret.  I could not make my mouth work; my throat felt as dry as sandpaper.  

"Syaoran . . . I'm sorry . . ."

I wished she would just abandon her intention to speak.  I felt like yelling and punching the wall.  It seemed the only way to release all the frustration and anger building inside me.  But I swallowed the urge to, and continued to hold my mother's hand instead.   

I didn't see it.  I guessed I was too absorbed in my tornado of feelings at that time that I didn't notice the life in her slowly melting away, into a bleak darkness.  Her eyes closed and never opened again.  And I was left holding her hand, limp and lifeless then.  

My father was downstairs.  I could hear the sounds from the TV quite clearly; it was on too loud.  The 8 o'clock news was coming on.  I knew my father was there on the sofa, watching television.  And I knew too that his mind wasn't on it, but somewhere else.  

That night, my father forbidded me to cook supper.  We ate out instead at some cheap stall.  After all, my family wasn't rich.  He said not a word to me during the entire meal.  Only when he had me tucked into bed did he mutter goodnight to me.  And switched off the lights and left.  

I slept well that night, after some hours of tossing and turning.  

It did occur to me that our family – which now consisted of only me and my father – was having a financial problem.  My father worked as a crop-supplier.  He didn't think of changing his occupation.  At dinner time, my father told me to go out and get a job.  I nodded my comprehension.  But I did not attempt to find any work although I had long since quitted school.  It was three years ago.  I was now sixteen.

One day, I sensed my father was in a terrible mood.  I had never seen him so angry and out of control of himself.  He started flinging the newspapers he read and collected everyday to the floor in a temper.  I was nursing a cup of stale tea when he flew into a fit.  I watched in alarm as my father shredded the newspapers and hurled them across the floor, but I dared not say anything.  Thinking of stopping him would be out of the question. 

I was frightened out of my wits but I remained quiet and could only hope he wouldn't tear the house down.  It was undoubtedly halfway crumbling itself and definitely didn't need any extra help with it.  At last, he turned his attention to me, and I could evidently see the mad rage in his eyes.  He resembled somewhat of a psychopath I saw in a horror film.  

I was even more terrified when he strode over to me and threw me down to the floor.  I winced as a jolt of pain ran through my body.  I couldn't think properly, and I was confused as to what was happening.  Then I felt my father's weight upon me, holding me in place.  My father was not particularly a big man, but for an average man, he was strong.  I tried to struggle and kick to break free of his hold, but he kept me down with his body.  I was beginning to panic.  All the while, his gaze pierced into my eyes, the rust-colored orbs blazing into my dark brown ones with a look of apparent sadism in them.  His hands tightened painfully around my wrists and I gasped under the vehemence of it.  I knew out of a corner of my mind that he was enjoying all this.  This thought was proven true when I felt a hardening in his trousers.  My eyes widened in shock when realization hit me that he was aroused.  This was my father doing all this!  For the love of God, what was happening to the world? 

"Dad, please," I begged, "don't do this!"

He payed no mind to my pleads, and proceeded to rip the front of my shirt with one hand, holding back both my wrists over my head with the other.  I started yelling incoherently in fear, twisting my body this way and that.

"Stay still, dammit!" my father barked callously, and something in his tone made me stop moving, but the tremors didn't.

"Dad, please . . . for Mother's sake–"  I was nearly giving up.  All my hope was shattering.

To my surprise, he halted his motions, as if remembering about Mother.  An expression of guilt flitted across his face, and his hands released mine abruptly as if stung.  Then, he said with anguish, "Forgive me, son . . .  I-I can't believe–"  He broke off, got to his feet, and ascended up the stairs with haste.  I heard the door to his bedroom slam shut.  

~ ~ ~

My father didn't leave his room for the rest of the day, even when I cooked some omelette and brought a plate up to his room, assuming he was hungry.  He wouldn't unlock his door no matter how many times I knocked on it.  Finally, he told me to go away and leave him be, so I did.  I held respect for him for he was my father, and I was ready to forgive him for what he'd done.  

But the fact that my very own father had tried to rape me still haunted my thoughts.  It sent shivers through my spine.  Night came, and I went to bed with an empty loneliness lingering at the bottom of my heart.  As I dressed in my night-clothes, I silently wished that Mother was still alive.  She often used to kiss my forehead and tell me that she loved me before I slipped into bed each night.  

I reached for the picture of her which I kept under my pillow, and looked at it.  Just by doing so, I could know that my sanity was still there and not lost.  She looked beautiful as ever. 

"G'night, Mother."

She smiled.  

I wasn't alone. 

Not for that night at least.

~ ~ ~

Notes: So that's the prologue.  Hope you enjoyed it.  Please r/r.  Thank you much!  ^_^


	2. What is there to blame but Cruel Fate?

Notes: I can't thank my reviewers enough.  The feedbacks encouraged me a lot, considering that the prologue was lame and all.  *sweatdrop*  For those who are dying to know when our dear Mr. Enigmatic (yes, I do mean Eriol ^^) is coming up, I'm pleased to announce that he'll make his grand appearance in another chapter or so.  And um, more angst.  Yeah.  Long live angst.  What else can you expect from a major angst fan.  XD

~ ~ ~

_-- Does love mean hope ? --_

Chapter One 

The following day came just as quickly as the night went.  I woke to the blinding rays of light seeping through the window pane, and grunted in aggravation, squeezing my eyes tight to block the luminosity.  

As far as I was concerned, I didn't plan to get out of bed today.  Nor did I have the mind to do anything but stay in bed.  But the glaring daylight was annoying the hell out of me.  Growling under my breath, I finally tossed the bedsheets aside rather aggressively, got up, and walked over to the window, drew the curtains tighter.  As I was about to fall back into bed, a shrill sound of ringing echoed its way to my ears, apparently, coming from downstairs.

It was my father calling me down to cook him breakfast.  Some things never change.

The next thing, I found myself clearing away the breakfast dishes in the kitchen whilst my father read his morning paper.  It seemed like another typical day, despite the uncanny things that occurred the day before.  

I realized I didn't want to think anymore of that.  Certain things were better left forgotten.

I poured the remnants of my cereal down the sink, and ran the water from the tap.  I began washing the dishes.

My father let out a little cough and said, "Son, Mr. Houston is coming over for a visit this afternoon at two.  I want you to be in your best behavior.  Serve him some of that coffee we have in that jug."  He gestured over at a small white jug on the counter. 

"Okay, Dad."

Our visitor arrived right on time.  

Mr. Houston was a forty-something man with a slight weight problem, and he was also a good friend of my father's who often came to visit.  As it was, my father wasn't much of a social butterfly.  I definitely wasn't one either.  I didn't have the chance to make any friends.  I used to have a close friend once, but he moved away a long time ago.  So basically, I'm pretty much a loner.  Though this didn't seem to concern my father.  He never cared much about minor things such as this.

As he'd put it: we have much more important things to deal with. 

I guessed he just doesn't how it feels to be lonely.  Not just emotionally, but mentally as well.  

They said that lonely people usually cry.  I don't mean the physical act of crying with the tears rolling down the cheeks and all, but it was more of the agony inside of the heart.  You can't see the pain from the outside, but you would be able to see it in a tormented person's eyes.

I grew up believing that boys shouldn't cry.  I couldn't remember the last time I cried about anything.  The tears just wouldn't start.  Not even when my mother died. 

I did my job of pouring the coffee for Mr. Houston, and quietly left him and my father to carry out their conversation.  

"I heard they're having a huge auction at the market presently."

My father's brow quirked at that.  "What're they auctioning?" 

A guttural laugh.  "Oh, nothing big."  Mr. Houston waved a hand nonchalantly.  "Just . . . you know, people.  As slaves."

The last word caught my attention as I was making my way out of the living room, and I moved to hide myself behind the entrance to the room.  

I peeped through a little hole in the splinched wall, and saw my father's eyes widening a little and an unfathomable expression stole over his visage, though I couldn't identify if it was one of surprise or interest.  But from the way it looked, I assumed it wasn't a very healthy one.  

"Slaves?" he repeated as if tasting the unfamiliar word he'd just spoken.

"Well, yeah.  Not a bad idea at all if you think about it.  You can make tons of cash just by selling a slave, you know.  The demand for them is high, so the auctioneers are taking this chance to gain profit.  Hardly surprising, you know."

Mr. Houston's constant repetition of the words 'you know' was gradually getting on my nerves.  But at that moment, my mind was too hooked up on the topic of the conversation they were having to contemplate anything else.  I had to admit I didn't like where this was leading to.

"Sounds rather intriguing."

"No doubt it is.  Many people nowadays need some help with housework . . . and of course for private matters . . ."

That left me wondering why I wasn't out the door by now, fleeing for my life.  Damn my immobilized legs. 

Apparently, this was new on my father.  One could tell from the perplexed look he was wearing on his face.  "Do you mean they sell young girls as slaves?"

"Naw.  Not only girls.  Boys even.  Children, adolescents, any unfortunate soul who have nobody to care about them."

There was a weird expression on my father's face now.  His forehead wrinkled as if in deep thought.  "Does looks matter?"

"What?"

"The features."

"Oh . . . I should think not.  But of course, sales would be much better for the ones with the facial splendor.   . . . Your son – Syaoran, is it – has got one of those exquisite looks.  Attractive eyes.  Fine features.  Very fine indeed."

I swore my heartbeat stopped for a second when I heard my name being mentioned.  A little warning bell went off in my head, urging me to waste no more time and make an escape.  

To interrupt this bizarre conversation with a racket.  

To do something.  

But my feet were rooted fast to the ground.  I couldn't move. 

For that instant, nothing seemed plausible. 

~ ~ ~

I was reading a book as an attempt to drown out all thoughts when Father practically barged into my room.  

"On your feet, son.  We're going to the market."

I raised a curious albeit suspicious brow.  "What for?"

He didn't answer, and I immediately knew something was wrong.  But before I could say anything else, he grasped me by the hand and pulled me out the door. 

Without any clarification, he drove us to the market with his breaking-down car, and the whole time I spent trying to diminish the panic that kept rising within me.  But it didn't lessen one bit. 

The market was filled with swarms of people; it was nearly suffocating just being there.  It was noisy beyond boisterous with all the people shouting aloud how cheap the random items were, and how comfortable it would feel wearing the underwear they have on sale.

We finally came to the slaves auction.  It was my first time seeing an actual auction which featured slavery, and a sense of nausea swept over me when I took in the scene of people dressed in disheveled rags huddling together.  I noticed only a minute later that my father was talking to the auctioneer.  The latter answered an all-too-loud 'Okay, sir!', offered my father something, and the hell I knew what happened after that.  My vision was a blur all of a sudden.  I was only aware of a rough tug on my arm, and a gruff voice saying, "C'mere, kid."  

I should've seen this coming.  

My father.  My very own father was walking away.

Out of my sight.

And most probably . . .

Out of my life.

I tried in vain to wrench my arm out of the auctioneer's aching grip.  I was almost whimpering from despair.  I presumed if I wasn't biting down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, I would have been.  I knew it was hopeless.  Nothing could make my father change his mind.  I knew him too well.  

And that didn't make the situation any better.  

Instead, it only made it worse.

I felt as if my whole world had come crashing down upon me.  I was oblivious to my surroundings.  I didn't give a damn about anything.  I just wanted to go home.  And resume the deprived yet peaceful life I'd learnt to accustom myself to.  Even if Mother wasn't around anymore.   

But at that very moment, I wished I hadn't existed at all. 

"DAD ! ! ! ! !"

~ ~ ~

Notes:  Awful cliffhanger, eh?  Okay, I confess.  I feel terrible for torturing poor Syaoran like this.  But the story has to go on.  That's my crappy excuse, cold as it may sound.  Well, at least I've got rid of his mean father.  We probably won't be seeing anymore of him after this . . . unless he demands to show up again.  O_o  But heck, he was just a pain in the ass anyway.  *kicks the annoying character aside*  ^_^  Um so, how about some feedback, folks?


	3. Hope behind Broken Innocence

Notes: First of all, I'm gonna start apologizing relentlessly for the slow update. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was trying to get into the writing mood again. I promise I'll try and get the next chap out more quickly. I just have really low confidence in nature, and it's bad for me. Which brings us to the fact that I don't write so often as I should. (whacks self)

**(!)**Warnings**(!)**: The following chapter contains mildly graphic scenes of torture, violence, language, human mortification, etc.

Additional notes: I reaaaally need to get a laptop. A PC just won't work good for me. (bombs PC)

* * *

_-- Does love mean conviction ? --_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

This was bad. This resembled a nightmare, yet it was impossible to wake up or get out.

As the auctioneer hurled me towards the group of slaves, I was forced to acknowledge that this was all true, and happening.

I could do nothing but withstand the gazes from the crowd as I stood among the other slaves.

I tried not to think of anything, but the bleak knowledge of the fact that I was nothing but a slave now haunted me to no end.

- - -

"Pull over right here, Laurence."

The car drew to a halt.

"A slaves auction, sir."

Eriol nodded his comprehension as he scanned the place. Unintentionally, his gaze settled on the only young boy of his age there, with disorganized brown hair and frayed clothes clung to him. Self-consciously, Eriol touched his own freshly-tailored ensemble lightly.

His eyes met the boy's, and their eyes locked for a fleeting moment before the brown-haired boy pulled his gaze away, thus breaking their eye contact.

Eriol's eyes narrowed slightly. Something within him went cold. "Let's go."

"Yes, sir."

- - -

I was praying madly that I would fail to be sold for today. But my prayer seemed to have fallen on deaf ears as I was almost immediately sold off to a lanky, blonde-haired man, about thirty-five, after rapid moments of auctioning. The auctioneer then hurled me towards my new owner, whom I developed an instant loathing for. He did not look affluent in the least, but he had been able to afford me, and I hated him even more for it.

My new owner gripped my hand, and pulled me away towards his waiting car. He spoke when we were already inside: "I'm Chris. What's yer name?"

"Syaoran." I made my answer as succinct as possible.

He gave me a look-over. "Ya look pretty young, lad. How ol' are ya?"

And I had thought it was rude to ask a person's age. "Sixteen."

"Neva been owned by no one?"

I was getting sick of these futile questions. "No."

He let out a sudden chuckle, but he didn't say anything else. I was thankful he decided to shut up for a while.

But for the rest of the way, I merely dreaded what was about to befall upon me in the next few hours.

- - -

That night was hell. I had thought there could be nothing worse than being sold like a cow by your own father, but I was proved wrong.

The nightmare had only begun.

The hours that passed seemed too long as I was pushed around like an animal, wrists bound behind my back, and forced to pick up bagels, which were dropped rather deliberately onto the floor only by my mouth.

The audience, which made up of Chris' gang of mildly insane friends, guffawed mercilessly as they watched me. One of them even kicked me through the ribs with a curt remark that I was too sluggish.

"What do you call yerself, a slave? Hah! You should be used as a toy instead. Hmm . . . but a limp and scrawny one like ya won't do much good, eh?"

The rage in me went wild then. A string of unpleasant words spilled from my mouth before I could stop them. That sent a round of shocked faces, and suddenly I received a firm, stinging slap. It was Chris.

"Goddamn bastard." He aimed a brutal kick deep into my torso. I failed to stifle a cry as a sharp jolt of pain seared through my body. "I'll teach you to insult my friends like that. Don't forget that you are a worthless being in the society. A total useless whore, hear? A person like you only deserves to be used and thrown away right after, son-of-a-bitch!"

As he said that, I tried to block out those words.

Those hurting, accusing words full of hatred directed at me.

But I heard them.

In fact, I heard every single word too clearly.

For the rest of the hour after a series of being kicked around like a wretched puppy, I made no further protest, but submissively did as I was told. There wasn't an option.

Every nerve in my body ached to fight; to pounce and beat the hell out of them for even experiencing pleasure in the agony of another living being. But I managed to keep my actions rationally intact. I knew I could never fight five grown-up boys at one time.

As it turned out, Chris was no better than my father.

I came to a conclusion that love isn't an easy thing.

At least not for me.

I decided not to succumb to love anymore. I didn't want to.

To me, love was merely an illusion.

To love or be loved, what was the dissimilarity?

What _mattered_?

Outside, the sound of falling rain seemed all too loud even for my ears. I had been so absorbed in my distress, I hadn't even noticed that it had started to rain.

- - -

Inside the Hiiragizawa mansion, Eriol gazed impassively out of his bedroom window as the raindrops continued to taint the window pane, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. His thoughts traveled back to the slaves auction in the market, where he had seen another boy not far from his age. And yet, that boy had looked so young, so innocent.

Unlike him.

Eriol wondered distantly what had caused the naïve-looking boy to be at the auction, but dismissed the thought soon after. He probably won't be seeing him anymore after this.

Setting the coffee cup down on a nearby table, Eriol moved towards the door. He still had to go to Sakura's house and hand her a certain document before it was too late. And the rain was only making things complex.

Reaching for the cordless phone, Eriol dialed Sakura's number. On the fourth ring, a young female voice answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Hiiragizawa speaking." Before he could continue, the female voice interrupted.

"Eriol-kun! Thought you'd never call. You have the document ready?"

"…Yeah. I'm coming over right now." With that, he hung up.

He caught sight of Laurence arranging coats downstairs.

"I'm going over to Sakura's house for a minute, Laurence. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Shall I drive you over, sir? It's raining rather heavily."

Tugging on a raincoat, Eriol replied, "No, that's okay. It's not far; a few minutes walk is all."

"Are you sure you'll be all right, sir?"

"Yeah." Eriol is already out the door before Laurence could say a further word.

- - -

My eyes jerked open at the overwhelming heat of the room. The air reeked of hard liquor and cheap beer. How long had I been asleep? I lifted my hand to my temple, and winced instinctively. My limbs hurt tremendously everywhere; my head was practically drumming off its walls.

Gathering a vast amount of energy, I finally sat up. The long piece of white cloth beneath me was too big to be a tablecloth and yet too small to actually be a blanket of some sort. The room was dark; almost vacant, if I hadn't been in it.

Then suddenly, it hit me. I dragged myself to the window, and looked out. A few dark figures loomed in the shadows below, followed by the sound of a car engine starting.

Chris' friends were leaving. A thousand thoughts clouded my head.

I knew I had to think fast. _Think!_, my brain shrieked. _Think like you've never thought about anything else before._

My eyes fell upon the bulky tree just outside the window. It looked accessible.

There might not be another chance like this.

Perhaps, not ever.

But I knew one thing for sure: a chance is just waiting for me to grab it.

When I had made sure the car was out of sight, I made my move.

- - -

The rain kept falling, knifing through the damp air in heavy torrents as Eriol sauntered his way to Sakura's apartment. He cautiously avoided walking into mud puddles, for that would mess up his raincoat.

Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, he kept an eye out for anyone suspicious who might be following him, and clutched the document in his raincoat tighter.

He did not notice the blind figure sprinting toward his direction. The deafening patter of rain drowned out any sounds of movement.

He flinched when his body came in contact with another in a violent momentum, but managed to regain his balance. He heard a faint male voice mutter 'Sorry', and looked down to see an utterly drenched boy, who had fell to his knees, hands palming the wet ground.

"It's okay. I apologize for my part." Eriol answered evenly. The boy wasn't getting up. Eriol realized the latter's hands were trembling. "Are you all right?"

The boy glanced up, and time seemed to halt as Eriol's eyes met his. Despite the thoroughly wet bangs falling into the boy's eyes, Eriol knew they were all too familiar.

* * *

Notes: (guilty look) The next chapter won't take too long. I just need some time. And yes, Sakura and Tomoyo are in the story, but they play fairly minor roles. Well, big minor roles. The reason Eriol has to go to Sakura's place will be revealed soon.


End file.
